


Make Me Aware of Being Alive

by WildnessBecomesYou



Series: Music is Not the Food of Love, but the Messenger [11]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Post-Canon, Songfic, brief mentions of angst, married softbois
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-20 05:00:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19370137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WildnessBecomesYou/pseuds/WildnessBecomesYou
Summary: Somebody hold me too closeSomebody hurt me too deepSomebody sit in my chairAnd ruin my sleepAnd make me awareOf being aliveBeing aliveCrowley is very suddenly aware that he is, actually, alive.





	Make Me Aware of Being Alive

**Author's Note:**

> I listened to Being Alive (the John Barrowman version) eight times in a row while driving before I consciously realized it was an Ineffable Husbands song, so here we are with another songfic

Before the apocalypse— before the Armageddon That Didn’t— Crowley rarely thought about being alive. He supposed he was, in a technical sense, but he didn’t have the same restrictions as human lives did, so could he count himself in their ranks? 

Nah. 

Post Armageddidn’t, though, he considered it.

He could feel Aziraphale’s heartbeat under his cheek. Alive humans had a heartbeat. He and Aziraphale didn’t need heartbeats; they weren’t alive, weren’t human, but their vessels produced them anyways. 

He should’ve been mad— mostly because at this point, he should be asleep. But Aziraphale was gripping him tightly, chin atop Crowley’s head, legs wrapped around Crowley’s middle, as if he were afraid Crowley might slither away while he slept. 

The angel shouldn’t even be asleep, he didn’t even _like_ to! When _Crowley_ had gone to bed, because Crowley _liked_ to sleep, Aziraphale had been sitting in Crowley’s desk chair. He’d been reading. He’d smiled at Crowley and wished him a good night, and hadn’t at all mentioned possibly coming to bed.

Aziraphale’s grip loosened momentarily, and Crowley thought perhaps he’d been granted an escape point. But then the angel shuffled in his sleep, now tucking his face into Crowley’s neck, and the position couldn’t be comfortable. But Aziraphale held it nonetheless. 

Let the angel have a neck cramp. He’d put Crowley through enough.

Crowley shook the bitter thought off. Aziraphale had apologized, attempting to hide tears, only letting Crowley see them when the demon had forced the angel to look at him. 

_“I just— I don’t know how I didn’t see it, before the Church and the books and the bomb, I mean, you’re the only one I’ve known since the Beginning, I should know you—“_

_“You do know me, angel.”_

_“Which is why I should’ve— but I didn’t see it, and I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I—“_

_“Aziraphale, it’s—“_

_“Not okay! Because you’d never do the same to me! And I… I…”_

_The air sizzled with it. “I love you, Crowley,” the angel murmured quietly, tears still streaming down as he tried in vain to clear his cheeks of them, “and I was afraid of it, of how much I love you, because if anything were to happen I don’t know what I’d do.”_

Aziraphale’s arms squeezed around Crowley’s back in his sleep. Crowley slowly wrapped his arms around Aziraphale, smiling despite himself at the happy hum that resulted from the action. He wasn’t entirely convinced Aziraphale was asleep anymore; the sun was beginning to come up, and that usually meant the angel was awake. 

He’d already forgiven the angel. He always would. He couldn’t blame the angel for his fear, or himself for reckless emotion. Yes, he’d been stopped short so many times, and yes, he’d quite literally gone to Hell and back for the daft celestial being— but the angel had done the same for him.

Quite literally, and quite recently. 

The last few weeks had been a bit…confusing. Not that Crowley hadn’t enjoyed them. They’d just been confusing, is all. 

They spent most days at Aziraphale’s bookshop together, most nights at Crowley’s. Aziraphale had changed his personal address to Crowley’s flat, which had bothered Crowley for all of two minutes. His complaints had swiftly ended with _“Well, it just makes more sense, doesn’t it? We are living together, might as well keep the business separate from our little abode.”_

_“You mean your book collection, not your business,” Crowley had teased._

_“Ah, my dear boy,” Aziraphale had smiled, placing a gentle hand on Crowley’s cheek, “it counts as a business when we do taxes!”_

They’d practically gone domestic! 

Actually, they’d definitely gone domestic. 

And Crowley was confused, because he didn’t mind. He didn’t mind the routine of it, or the quiet company in the long hours; he didn’t mind when Aziraphale dragged him from his own work to lunch at some new restaurant in Soho, or placed a gentle hand between Crowley’s shoulder blades when Crowley was writing. 

_(He’d taken up writing under a pen name. A. C. Fell, he called himself. He’d started writing the various myths he’d lived through, but they’d been so detailed, and Aziraphale had convinced him to try his hand at Young Adult Fiction with the very same tales. He sold fairly well. Just well enough._

_Aziraphale sold his books, but he kept three copies of each book, guarding them as protectively as the rest of his books. Crowley would deny the warm feeling in his chest if you pointed it out.)_

He didn’t mind all of these changes. He liked having Aziraphale nearby. He liked knowing there was someone to reach for, who’s hand would always meet his with warmth, or who was always willing to drop a kiss to the top of his head. He once would have called it stifling, but he quite enjoyed this. 

He cared quite deeply for the angel. Loved him. Would do anything for him, no matter what the cost, no matter the deed, afraid of the consequences or not. 

Oh, he was alive. It was slightly terrifying. 

Aziraphale grunted softly, wiggling in Crowley’s grasp, and Crowley realized he’d been squeezing a bit too tight. He loosened his grip with an apology he didn’t mean. 

The angel untucked his face from Crowley’s neck, smiling up at him. “G’morning,” he mumbled sleepily, pressing a kiss to the high point of Crowley’s cheekbone. 

Crowley smiled, a hand skating up his angel’s back to bury itself in blonde curls. “Shall I put on the kettle?”

Definitely alive.

**Author's Note:**

> Crowley took his husband's name because it was a funny joke and also he's a dork.


End file.
